The Water Wagon

Z'mbutu, giving the hole a hard gaze, replied, "We go down. You first."

:.

The legendary Well of Wonders was, at first glance, nothing more than a stone stable carved out of the desert sandstone bedrock. There were a couple of dozen or so stalls for animals, troughs for fodder and water, hooks for tackle. Four of the stalls held horses but most were empty. There was an air of disuse about the place and no stable hand in attendance. There was a ladder at the far wall which descended through a hole in the stone floor.

Shujaa, with sword drawn, had investigated the place before he climbed back up the ramp and reported to Z'mbutu. As quietly as they could be, the two men had then led the camels and chariots down into the stable. Once they'd cleared the ramp the entrance had resealed itself. They left the camels harnessed, in case of a need for a fast get away, but the men did provide the animals with water and dried grass from the troughs.

They approached the far wall, and with Z'mbutu in the lead, climbed down the ladder. At the foot of the ladder they found themselves in a long wide corridor, indirectly lit by a source Z'mbutu could not identify. The walls, faced with gold leaf, glowed. They were decorated in mosaics made of various gemstones.

"Touch nothing," Z'mbutu warned the captain. He pulled out a taper and lit the end.

"Why? Is the treasure enchanted?"

"I doubt that. But it's said to be tainted with various clear venoms and dried solution of communicable diseases."

"Eeh. Indeed? Then I shall endeavor to keep my hands to myself."

"Eeh. And stay within the column of the taper smoke. From all descriptions, this hall is laced with clear vapors which cause hallucinations. If you should grow confused and step into a side room it could prove to be without a floor and you would plummet to your death in a pit of sharp spikes."

Shujaa curled his lip in disdain. "Sounds like the sort of thing a magician would think up."

The two moved slowly up the wide corridor until they reached a huge open dark doorway on their left from which emanated the enticing aroma of food. The hungry men both turned toward the wafting smells of a feast. "Stay within the smoke," Z'mbutu warned again. "The aroma is an illusion."

"Of course," Shujaa said, licking his lips, then swallowing. "Of course."

The next doorway was on the right, dark as well, but there was the suggestion of shadows moving about in there through the archway. Tantalizing black on black figures of female shapes and voices and scents. Both men, sweating, moved on with some effort.

The third chamber was on the left, as had been the first. There was the sound of coin clinking together. A spark flaring in the dark, as if gold glittered there. Neither man lingered.

The fourth room was on the right. Dark, no sound, no odor, no suggestion of occupants. Z'mbutu frowned. "Hold on a moment," he said to Shujaa.

The alchemist leaned out beyond the swirling tendrils of the smoke of his panacea taper. He looked into the room. For a few seconds there was nothing. Then the darkness resolved and Z'mbutu saw a chancellor's chair. He knew it to be his own. His chest swelled that he was finally the head of a great university. The well-respected patriarch of a prestigious and learned institution. A self-satisfied smug expression crossed his dark face as Z'mbutu moved to sit in the high ornate chair.

"Magician!"

The shout brought Z'mbutu back to his senses. He saw that he stood within the arch of the portal, Shujaa's restraining hand on his forearm.

"You were about to cross into the room."

Visibly shaken, the alchemist nodded. "My thanks."

"You're welcome. As you say, stay within the smoke."

"Aye."

They made to continue down the corridor. Suddenly, there was the sound of many footsteps running and the far end of the long wide hall was choked with jinnis, men and women all with long knives drawn.

"Shit," said Z'mbutu, with an irritated growl.

"Eeh." The askari drew his curved sword, fist tight on the hilt.

"I'm Z'mbutu. I've come for the girl stolen from me by the duplicitous Ifrit. Return her to me and none of you shall suffer harm."

A scornful laugh answered his bravado and Ifrit stepped forward out of the mob. He was dressed somewhat differently than his oasis garb. He wore splendid robes of white with a broad purple sash around his waist, a golden turban snugged his head. His slippers were of gold cloth, as well, point tipped and curled at the toe.

"I am First-slave of the Lamp. Welcome to my djinn. You are both dead men."

"I really abhor these kind of situations," Z'mbutu tiredly opined. "I really do."

The Princess, who stood helpless and trembling in the grip of two large jinnis, grew wide-eyed at the sight of the alchemist and the askari. "Shujaa," she screamed in panic, "free me."

Shujaa growled and leapt forward, his scimitar glinting in the blazing lamp light. Twenty jinnis and their knives moved forward to meet him. Z'mbutu drew his own steel but did not join into the fray.

"Stop," he yelled, and threw down his sword. "We surrender!"

"Tell that to your friend," Ifrit hissed.

Z'mbutu saw that Shujaa knew his business. Three jinnis already were at his feet, dead or mortally wounded. His great broad and curved sword flashed, blood and ocher sheeting from the blade as he hacked his way toward the princess.

"Shujaa, stop. This isn't the way," Z'mbutu yelled at the berserker warrior. "Stop!"

But the askari only stopped when one of the long knives found his side, the assailant twisting the blade as he withdrew it. Shujaa bellowed, in searing pain, his sword dropping from nerveless fingers as he sank to his knees on the sand gritted tiles.

"Enough," Ifrit commanded, as the jinnis closed in on the fallen askari. "Don't kill him here. Bring them both into the Sanctuary Chamber where they can be properly sacrificed."

"Sacrifice," Z'mbutu growled to himself as he was lead away. "Why am I not surprised."

:.

Shujaa lie bleeding from his wound. Blood seeped scarlet between his fingers where he held his hands to his side, his mouth grimacing as he sought to hold his pain in silence. In Z'mbutu's opinion, without treatment, the askari wouldn't survive the hour.

Be quick, the alchemist admonished himself. Be clever.

The men and women of the djinn knelt on their knees on a tiled floor in a semi-circle before a high and wide sandstone altar. Ifrit stood next to it with his fists to his waist and thumbs hooked down inside of his broad sash, the assured posture of a man certain of his command of the situation. He sneered at Z'mbutu. "Quite the bumbler, aren't you Master Alchemist? What I mean is, you seem adept enough to devise plans but lack the skills to see them through, successfully."

"Not even the gods themselves win every battle, or so the saying goes."

"Just so," the jinni agreed. "Still, this is your second attempt to return the wayward princess to her people and you've failed again. It must be very frustrating for you."

"Inconvenient, if nothing else."

"Well, fear not. All your worries are about to come to an abrupt end."

"That's a relief, because lately, and I don't mean to complain but things have been somewhat harried."

Ifrit graciously smiled at Z'mbutu's attempt at humor then ordered the princess gagged and secured to the altar, her struggles less than nothing to the burly jinnis who chained her down. Ifrit ran a hand lovingly over her dark brown cheek, she shrank from the touch. He laughed and turned to Z'mbutu.

"I've had her practice her dancing at every opportunity. She's improved, if you can believe that. A luscious girl. A shame she must be sacrificed with her charms unsampled. Well, Alchemist, this is the end. I'll drink a salute to you tonight as I feast beneath the pole with your head on it."

"Not a very good idea. My head on a pole wouldn't be very attractive. Not to berate your idea, I've just got one of those kind of heads."

"Empty bravado. It'll serve you no better than it did that solider bleeding out his life on the floor."

"Then, mayhaps, scholarship will prove the more effective weapon."

Ifrit's top lip curled in disdain. "No amount of learning can save you now."

"Oh? Think you can order my death? You aren't the Master of the Lamp. You're a slave of it, you said so yourself, as are all your brethren and sisters. It is said that it's the Master of the Ring who truly controls the jinnis of the Lamp."

"The Ring has been lost long since before the Dawn of the Age. I am First-slave, Master of the Lamp and all the slaves within it."

"Eeh. But I am Master of the Ring." And Z'mbutu held up his left hand, with all the showmanship of a carnival conjurer. The antique silver ring dully glinted back the light of the chamber. All eyes were turned to him.

Ifrit blanched under his sun burnt complexion, taking a stumbling step back from the altar before he regained his composure. "No, it's a counterfeit."

"Is it?" Z'mbutu asked, taking a step forward.

"The Ring has been lost since before the Great Desert was a green grassland. It vanished when Eden fell and no man has seen trace of it since."

"Oh? Well, obviously I found it. It's the reason I'm here in the first place. Put it to the test. Bring the Sacred Kumkum. Bring forth the Mother of Lamps."

Ifrit's yellow eyes widened even as he grimaced in simmering rage. "How can you know these things?"

Z'mbutu gave a slow smile. "I read a great deal, especially about the history of this piece of jewelry. I took it from the finger of a succubus. The demon was said to be immortal, until a stone wall collapsed on her proving the facts otherwise. Bring forth the Kumkum, Ifrit. Or are you afraid?"

The first-slave saw he had little choice. His legitimate leadership had been put in doubt. He must quickly remove that doubt. The ring had to be a fake. He clapped his hand. "Bring forth the Kumkum."

The lamp was brought. Ifrit held it out, firmly in his grip, his eyes full of a renewed spiteful confidence. "Proceed, Alchemist."

Z'mbutu curled his left hand into a fist and thrust it at the bulging side of the large golden lamp, clicking the signet into the dimple. With a grunting effort, he turned his fist to the left, then the right, then to the left once more, before hurriedly withdrawing it.

All watched, enrapt. Seconds passed and nothing happened.

Ifrit pulled the lamp back toward him and gave forth a giggling, mildly hysterical expression of relief. "The ring is false," he declared. "Kill him and the warrior."

The jinnis stood from their knees as one and began to advance on Z'mbutu and Shujaa, but were stopped in their tracks by a hiss which began to issue from the Kumkum, growing louder and stronger with each passing moment. Ifrit's triumphant smile turned to an expression of puzzlement as he stared at the lamp in his hands which was growing hotter. Then, smoke began to pour from the spout of the lamp. With a yell, Ifrit dropped the sacred relic to the rugged tiles.

The Kumkum clanked against the stone tiles as it skidded a few feet across the floor, smoking all the while.

"The smoke is said to be death," Ifrit screamed. "An oil concentrate of asp's venom. Flee."

"Stop!" Z'mbutu bellowed. It was the voice of command and it was obeyed.

He took three strides across the floor, grabbed up the lamp and once more fit the ring to the depression in the side of it. He turned it right, then left, then right. The smoke ceased before gaining lethal intensity. The metal began to cool. He looked out at the assembled jinnis and his easy smile returned.

"The Master of the Ring controls the Lamp and all the slaves within it."

With the exception of the shaken Ifrit, the collective repeated the prime commandment of the djinn. "The Master of the Ring controls the Lamp and all the slaves within it."

Z'mbutu nodded, nestling the lamp in the crook of his arm. "It is my wish that Ifrit not live to see another minute of life."

The jinni nearest to the first-slave, drew her jewel dagger and plunged it into the hollow of Ifrit's throat, twisted the blade, then withdrew it. With more than a little satisfaction Z'mbutu watched the first-slave fall dead across the altar at the princess' bare feet, then slide lifeless to the floor.

"Well done, comely jinni. It is my wish as well that you become First Slave of the Kumkum, Guardian of the Lamp."

She went down on one knee. "I'm your servant, Master of the Ring."

"Indeed you are, girl. Is there a surgeon in the djinn?"

"Yes, Master."

"Have him tend my fallen friend, here. You may also release the princess and bring her proper garments. Then, let us speak of supper."

"As you wish, Master of the Ring."

Z'mbutu chuckled, obviously quite pleased with himself. He was alive. Ifrit was dead. The princess was rescued. And, for the moment at least, life was just as he wished it to be.

-end-